Sorting It Out
by Ripper101
Summary: The first time John sees a picture of six-year-old Cam in a cowboy hat, he thinks its adorable. Cam does not. After a while, John starts to think it may not be about the hat. slash.


Disclaimer: I own rights to neither of these two characters, or to the TV show they derive from. I mean no offence by posting this and I certainly make no money from it.

* * *

The first time John sees a picture of Cam in a cowboy hat, he almost pisses himself laughing.

The photo's adorable: Cam's all chubby and cute, about six years old and grinning up from under the brim of a Stetson. It was clearly taken outdoors, in bright sunshine, and the stripe of sunlight across Cam's childhood chin and shoulder just makes the missing tooth look even more hilarious.

And Cam has freckles.

This, John finds more amusing that anything else. More amusing than, say, the missing tooth or the way Cam's blue eyes are all squinched up, or the way Cam's straining facial muscles fit to pull something.

"It looks like a toothpaste commercial," John says, and grins back at the photograph, just because.

Cam is not impressed. He snatches it away and sticks it in his pocket and John never sees it again.

Cam's got other photos, of course. Cam's even got other cute photos, or funny photos, but it's Cam's mother who shows John the second photo of an older Cam - a fourteen year old Cam - in yet another Stetson.

John chokes, clears his throat, smiles politely at Cam's mother and says, "That's a nice photo, Mrs. Mitchell."

He doesn't need to look to know that Cam has given up hope beside him, is hanging his head and pinching the bridge of his nose in resigned embarrassment.

When they're alone in the car, driving back to a motel because Cam refuses to do the dirty with another man under his parents' roof, John gives Cam his best shit-eating grin and says, "If you get another hat, I'll let you ride me."

Cam almost crashes the car.

"Oh God, don't fucking say things like that," John gets, and, "I hated that damn hat."

"Aw, shucks, Tex," John murmurs, offering up his best drawl, "I was gettin' all excited."

Cam shoots him the dirtiest look John has ever seen and is pissed enough to cold shoulder him all evening.

John rolls his eyes and leaves him alone, flipping channels until he finds an old game on TV and kicking his feet up on the scarred motel coffee table.

But that night he sucks on Cam's earlobe and gently pushes one finger in as prep, and Cam groans and gives in.

John's sense of humour is seriously skewed and he's a bit of a bastard about a joke. He says absolutely nothing until he's got Cam kneeling over him, coming down on top of him, around him, head thrown back and his face flushed. He continues to say absolutely nothing until Cam's all the way down, and he's all the way in, and then he lets go of Cam's hips.

"Go on," he says, "Ride me."

He stresses the word 'ride' and Cam's eyes snap open and his jaw goes tight as fuck. Actually, his ass goes tight as fuck too, and John groans as he rolls his hips.

But Cam does ride him. Hard and fast and brutal. He rides him like he's angry as all hell and with no consideration at all for John's back and hips and dick.

And John clings to the sheets and moans and holds on for dear life.

When they're done, John just lies there like a fish out of water, gasping up at the ceiling with his eyes glazed over. Cam's off and out of the room before he can do anything, though, and John makes the effort once his heart's stopped trying to break out of his chest. He gets up and knocks on the door of the bathroom, which is where he assumes Cam will be.

Cam's already dressed and shoulders past him without a word.

The sink's wet, there's a towel on the floor, and by the time John says, "Wait, Cam," and tries to follow, he's just in time to see the front door click shut.

It's all quiet and calm, and John knows he's pushed far too far.

Cam gets back at some ungodly hour of the morning, stone cold sober, and John knows better than to ask about the 'where' rather than 'why'; two years of a rocky marriage have given him just enough wisdom to know that. Plus, John doesn't know what the hell he's done wrong.

Cam's not usually so prickly.

Cam's usually the one mocking John about weird shit.

But this cowboy thing is just freaky. John thinks it's cute but apparently it's some kind of big, dark secret. Which, okay, John can respect. John can respect a lot of things. John can respect things in two galaxies, but that doesn't mean he wants to just let this go without knowing what he did wrong.

Cam doesn't even look around when John stands up from the couch: just marches on into the bedroom, strips off and gets into bed.

John hesitates by the door and then follows suit. He lies down beside the man he's been trying to kind of maybe have more than sex with for about a year. Cam's absolutely relaxed, which John knows takes some effort. He knows because, for him, the sheets are rough as sandpaper and the mattress is stuffed with rocks. Even the pillow's like old plywood and everything's too hot, and his feet are too cold, and Cam won't even touch him.

John closes his eyes and he sees Cam from before. Not the chubby six year-old or the gangly fourteen year-old, but the man, flushed and wanting and letting John in good and deep.

John falls asleep on that thought, feeling like a complete ass for jeopardising that.

The next few days are still cool and impersonal. Cam treats him like another guy who just happens to be sharing his space. He's polite, he's pleasant, there's no shouting, no screaming, no snide remarks, no sharp anger. Cam acts completely normal when they go back to see his parents and they don't seem to realise there's a problem.

There is most certainly a problem, though, and John's ready to cave after two days. He's desperate after three.

In the end he does the one thing Nancy always wanted him to do - he walks into the room and says, "Can we talk about this?"

Cam sniffs and looks anywhere but at John, and John isn't used to this, he's not used to being the one who has to ask the questions.

But Cam sort of shrugs. Says, "Yeah, sure."

And then John kind of loses the plot. He hasn't thought this far ahead.

And Cam gives him nothing, just sits there and waits for him to start.

"It was only a joke," John ends up saying.

Cam smiles, except that it's not actually a smile. "I figured."

"I didn't mean for you to get mad."

"I'm not mad."

It's a bare-faced lie. John doesn't get to hear many of those. At least, not from the people he actually likes. Not from his family and certainly not from his...

John grimaces.

Cam sighs and rubs his hand over the short spikes of his hair as if he needs to spend energy any way he can. "Hey," he says, "It's okay. Just forget it. We're good."

"I was an ass," John says.

And Cam laughs, short and humourless, and says, "Yeah."

They kiss and make up, sort of, which John is very grateful for because he doesn't know what to do when Cam shuts himself down like that.

Still doesn't solve the problem though.

Not even when Cam relaxes enough to drawl at him again, all curvy Southern vowels and All-American goodness. John thinks 'cowboy' and then hates himself for it. It's so clearly a no-go area but he can't help it. Now that it's such an issue, he can't let it rest.

And fate doesn't help, not when he finds the next photo.

A friend of Cam's brings it over.

"Hey, Shaft, remember that one?"

And there it is: a third photo of thirty-two year old Cam and a cowboy hat. John holds it in his fingertips and he blanks his expression because he doesn't know how else he's supposed to react.

Cam's friend doesn't stay long.

"You wore the hat," John mentions when it's just them.

"It's just a goddamn hat," Cam huffs.

It kind of is, so John doesn't take it any further.

He lets Cam set the pace and he keeps his mouth shut. Rolls over and gets his knees steady against the mattress and says, "Here, just... let's do it this way," like somehow this will make everything alright.

It might. Maybe it does. Because John feels less like a screw-up when it's over. He's still getting used to this feeling of opening up to someone else, of actually getting fucked and liking it, and Cam's been so careful not to push him too far.

John doesn't make it a habit to bring his personal issues into his one-on-one flight training sessions but Lieutenant Buckner actually squints at him oddly and says, "You okay, sir?"

John frowns at the controls. "I'm thinking of all the ways you can kill me from here on out." He gives him a pop quiz on pre-flight checks, all of which Buckner gets right.

He gets home to find Cam isn't back yet, they have no food worth eating, and someone really has to clean. He gets started and manages to shove a bunch of new batteries into a desk drawer when he finds the first photo.

In the photo, Cam's still six, still grinning, still half-lit with sunshine and health and happiness, eyes squinched shut and Stetson on. Cam's front tooth is still missing and Cam still has freckles.

Cam now has a couple of freckles on the back of his left shoulder. Very light ones, barely there. John knows them because he's drawn circles around them with his tongue, sucked on the skin where they lie while Cam moans and heaves beneath him, bucking down into the sheets and back up against the easy rhythm of John's hips.

Cowboy hats.

Cowboys.

John still has no clue what line he crossed. Cam's reaction was wrong for a joke gone too far. And yes, now that it's all over, John admits that he was a little angry when Cam just walked off, like he had that right instead of telling him why it was such a big deal.

John's not dumb enough to broach the subject again without an engraved invitation. And he's also smart enough not to bring it up as a joke - not if he doesn't want to get into an actual fight.

So John puts the photograph on the desktop, face down, and he leaves it there.

Cam finds it the next morning when they're both cutting it fine to get in on time, and Cam holds it between thumb and forefinger like it's trying to burn a hole in his skin.

"Found that in the desk drawer," John says honestly, "Maybe you want to put it away."

"I did," Cam says.

They have separate cars, even though DADT is two years gone and no one cares about two aging flight instructors.

John waits for Cam to close the front door behind them. He's got his car keys out and he's clicked his car unlocked, but he holds back for just a second to say, "You'd look hot in that hat."

Cam looks at him like he doesn't believe John, or like he's expecting some kind of other shoe to drop.

John has nothing more to say on the matter, so he sort of smiles and shrugs and leaves before his embarrassment makes his ears go red.

He doesn't see Cam until late, late, past-midnight late that night, and he was assuming it was deliberate on Cam's part until he sees the shredded up sleeve of Cam's uniform and the telltale smudges of mud.

"Gate duty," he says, and it's not a question.

Cam nods. "I'm beat. I'm going to bed."

John follows him to make sure Cam doesn't bump into walls or trip over anything. He gets in with Cam and puts a careful hand on Cam's waist, fingers spreading over Cam's ribcage. Right over that ugly old scar Cam said he got from a Warrior of the Sodan, like that means something to John.

It doesn't. There are a lot of things they do that mean absolutely nothing to the other. But this hat, now, this hat has become about something bigger than everything else.

And it's driving John crazy.

He pins Cam down the next evening and says, "I have to ask, what's with the hat? Why does it make you so mad?"

Cam goes stiff and defensive and says, "Why are we still talking 'bout this?"

"Because you react like that."

John waves a hand up and down Cam's body and he feels he's justified. Cam looks like he's on high alert, compact and coiled and ready to spring into action. He looks like John's actually going to attack him.

"Just tell me what I did wrong."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Well, I do," John says.

Cam's jaw tightens. "I just don't feel like being pressured to wear weird shit so you can get your rocks off."

"Who pressured you? I made a joke!"

"A fucking stupid joke."

"Okay, it was a stupid joke. But we make stupid jokes all the time. I don't get mad."

Cam snorts. "Yeah. You're just so damn perfect."

John feels the flicker of annoyance begin to brush up into actual anger. "I'm not perfect," he grits out, "And neither are you. We've got our shit to deal with it. I get that. But this isn't just about that 'ride me' comment because we did that already. I said I was sorry. And if it's not that, then it's the damn hat again. If you don't want to wear the goddamn hat, Cam, that's fine. Don't wear it. But at least tell me what your problem is. Tell me so I know and maybe I can fix it."

"Nothing to fix."

"For fuck's sake!"

"It's a stereotype," Cam butts in, quick and clean like a surgical incision, and the tone of his voice is suddenly absolutely cold.

John's brain stops dead in its tracks. "What?" he manages eventually.

"The hat. Stereotype," Cam says, "Ever since always, people think 'Southern guy, right, cowboy roleplay, yee-fucking-haw'. Ride 'em, cowboy. Ride me cowboy style. Going for a ride, cowboy? I got 'em all. You name it, I heard it. Every sick fuck who heard me open my mouth, that's all they wanted. It gets old fast. And you know what? It gets insulting."

John opens his mouth.

"And then goddamn 'Brokeback Mountain' happened." Cam's already thrown up his hands and turned away, expression grim and shoulders hunched, "I don't do cowboy hats. Just let it go."

"Power games," John gets out.

Cam stops in his tracks.

"Mine is power games."

Cam looks around, somewhat confused.

"Every guy I ever dated wanted to order me around, or wanted me to give the orders. They heard I wanted to be military, they started asking for dress blues and white gloves. All they wanted."

"Kind of like that," Cam allows.

"You don't do that," John points out.

"No."

"If you don't want to wear the hat," John says, "You don't. No pressure." He hesitates.

Cam doesn't answer that.

In fact, now that John knows, it seems pathetically anti-climactic. And not important at all. Now that it's not in his head twenty-four-seven, he moves on and there are other things they fight about, other things he has to get right. Other things he finds out about Cam.

And Cam seems to let it go too.

John plays Johnny Cash and Hank Williams in the car on the weekend, and Cam doesn't get all cranky about it. Even hums along to a couple of songs. Lets his accent get thick and syrupy and John relaxes into the sound of it.

There are days he looks up at the blue sky and thinks of Atlantis, but this isn't one of those days. Right then he's pretty happy where he is, even if he has to let someone else take charge. Even if he has to take orders.

So he isn't prepared when Cam takes a short drive alone that afternoon. Or rather, he's not prepared for Cam to come back with a bulky plastic bag that he tosses across the room at John.

John opens it to find a cowboy hat.

He goes still and quiet and doesn't know how he's supposed to react.

Cam's just standing there watching him with his arms crossed, face unreadable.

The hat's ordinary enough, low-crowned, black, plain. John turns it over in his hands. It's so clearly new the material's still stiff.

"Are you going to put it on?" Cam asks.

And John twitches.

"Or would you feel really dumb wearing it?"

It's a challenge. There's an edge to those words and John knows when he's toeing a line that could land him in an unpleasant situation.

So John puts it on, angles it rakishly, and tries not to look like this whole thing is making him supremely uncomfortable. He tries a smile for good measure.

Cam drops his arms and sighs, hanging his head for a moment as if he can't believe this is happening.

John sympathises. He doesn't believe it either. "Is this some kind of test?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"Maybe we can call it a gift?"

"Be a lot less embarrassing, sure."

John lets that echo out for a minute, lets his brain absorb it before he comes to a decision. He takes the hat off, ruffles his hair a bit to make it more comfortable and then sticks it back on. Gets up nice and slow and saunters over to where Cam is staring moodily at the carpet.

"So," John says, and puts both hands on his hips, relaxing his posture enough to make it look something like a swagger, "What do you think?"

Cam looks up from the carpet and blinks.

John tips his head to the side and smiles, wide and easy, letting it crinkle the little lines at the corner of his eyes. "That bad?"

"I can't fucking believe this."

"That bad. Right. I'll just, er..."

Cam catches his hands before he can get to the hat.

John raises an eyebrow.

Cam swallows.

John drops down to his knees and Cam lets go of his wrists just long enough for John to get his pants out of the way. After that, John actually offers his wrists back up, and Cam snatches them up, squeezes them tight between his fingers and lets John's mouth work its magic.

They leave the hat on at first.

When it's all over and the cowboy hat has ended up under the side table, Cam stretches luxuriously against the scratchy carpet and ruffles a hand through John's hair.

"Still hate the hat?" John yawns.

Cam tightens his grip. "Why is this so important to you?"

John hisses and reflexively twitches his head closer to ease the pull.

Cam lets go immediately. "Sorry."

"That fucking hurts," John complains, and then, "It was important to you. Didn't understand why."

"It's not, you know. Important."

"I get it."

"Just one of those things."

"Yeah."

They're both falling asleep there, naked on the carpet in their own living room, and if John turns his head a little, he can see late afternoon sunlight stripe across Cam's chin and neck, across one shoulder. Right into John's eyes, but John's not complaining.

"You're not a type," John says.

"Sappiest thing you've ever said," Cam replies.

"Shut up. I just thought I should tell you."

"I think we both said enough about it, John."

John agrees. His last word on the subject is, "I just think you'll look hot in it. If you ever did wear it."

Cam rolls his eyes and grimaces as he wipes at himself with his tshirt.

Two months later, on John's birthday, Cam surprises him by dressing up in dress uniform complete with white gloves and medals.

John wants to scowl at the shit-eating grin on Cam's face, and he does, until he really looks at the way the uniform fits over Cam's shoulders and hips, the perfect crease down the front of his trousers, and then the scowl falls away as all the possibilities of the situation present themselves.

Cam claps the cowboy hat on John's head and then throws a crisp salute that makes John's knees go weak.

"You're not a damn type either," Cam says.

It's really the best birthday ever.


End file.
